-- Joseph Conrad, Heart of
Darkness

“So, Hermione,” Molly Weasley began pleasantly, spoon clattering
against her saucer. “What have you been
up to these past few days?”

She shrugged, still stirring her own brew. “Just poking around, mostly.
Seeing what’s changed and what hasn’t.
I was up in Hogsmeade yesterday, Diagon Alley before that.”

“And has anything changed?” Françoise asked, bemused. In her lap, Alice chortled and continued to
make a mess of her teething biscuit.

“Of course,” she replied, taking a small sip of her tea and mentally
pronouncing it correct. “I noticed a
couple of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes shops that hadn’t been there when I was last
around,” she said with a small smile in Molly’s direction.

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe how
the boys’ business has taken off,” Molly said, taking her cue beautifully. “Why, they’ve got at least three shops now,
in addition to their catalogue. They’re
talking about going overseas next, branching out into France.” She shook her head. “Who would have thought? And they still set fire to the Burrow at
least once a month with their ‘research.’”

“It’s nice to know that some
people haven’t changed,” Hermione said wistfully, eliciting a small laugh from
the twins’ mother.

“And how are your parents doing, young lady?” Molly asked, switching
gears. “Have you paid them a visit?”

“He’s got to grieve, after
all. And he’s always been such a
sensitive boy ...”

Blinking at the woman’s prattle, Hermione struggled to recall all that
Harry had told her about his aunt through the years. It seemed to be the same woman physically, at least -- bleached blonde hair with gray roots at
the temples, a long, thin neck, and a rather horsy-shaped face, complete with
large teeth. She also remembered
something about a nasty temperament and such blatant favoritism toward the
repugnant Dudley (who she’d thankfully never met) that she’d struggled to even
mentally justify the woman’s actions.

Where, then, did this lady come
from, chatting with Harry’s widow and casually bouncing his daughter on his
lap? This couldn’t be the same person
who served Harry cold, canned soup through a cat flap for nearly half of the
summer after his first year at Hogwarts.
This solemnly smiling, tea-sipping woman had imprisoned her only nephew
in a cupboard under the stairs for the first ten years of his life.

Hermione hated her on sight, wanting nothiore ore than to snatch Alice
out of her arms and order her out of Harry’s home.

Glancing furtively over at an increasingly thin-lipped Molly Weasley,
it appeared as if she shared Hermione’s sentiment.

Fortunately, however, Petunia Dursley had only planned on spending half
of an hour with the Potter family, finishing her tea and putting Alice back on
the ground with a pat on her curly little head. “Well ... I’m sorry I can’t stay and chat any longer, Françoise,”
she said, smiling apologetically, “but I’ve got bridge at Marie Chambers’ in a
bit and it wouldn’t do for me to be late.”

“Of course not,” Françoise agreed.
“It was good of you to drop by, Petunia.” She gamely underwent another smiling embrace with Harry’s aunt
before escorting her to the door and through it, closing it with another one of
those polite little sighs. “She means
well,” she said to Hermione’s confused gaze and Molly’s frankly disapproving
one.

“I never,” Molly harrumphed. “A
cat could have raised poor Harry better than that awful woman. He happens to turn out well and she’s right
there to claim all of the credit.”

“Now, Molly,” Françoise admonished, sitting down again and pouring
herself another cup of tea from what Hermione was beginning to suspect was a
bottomless pot of sorts. “Petunia
Dursley was nearly as much of a victim of that awful husband of hers as Har --
as he was.”

Shaking her head, Molly’s face looked as if it were set in stone.“She could have intervened,” she persisted.

“Not in the pattern of behavior for abused women,” she argued
placidly. “Vernon Dursley ruled his
family with an iron fist -- she would no more have intervened on Harry’s behalf
than she would have flown to the moon.
All in all,” she concluded, turning in her chair as Alice toddled out of
her line of sight, “it was probably for the best when he ran off with that
young chit and left her high and dry.”

Hermione idly noted that she spoke Harry’s name without a tremor for
the first time since she’d met her.

“She did change after that,”
Molly admitted grudgingly. “I remember
-- it was right before you and Harry met.
That boy of hers was still in university and there she was with no job and
with that horrible husband threatening to throw her out of the house so he
could sell it. Harry actually took her
in for a bit, let her live in his flat while she got the divorce straightened
out. That’s when everything changed
between them, I guess.”

“She realized that he wasn’t some sort of changeling babe dropped on
her doorstep after all,” Françoise agreed with a small chuckle. “Freshen your cup?”

“Oh no, dear, I’m fine.”

-- -- -- --
--

Ron shot Hermione an apologetic look as he strapped a protesting Alice
into her high chair. “It seems as if we
might not get to supper, after all,” he said.

“I don’t see why it’s so important to her that -- what’s his name,
again? -- he comes down,” she replied, rather taken aback by the sight of Ron
battling a small child and losing miserably.

“Nicholas,” he supplied. “And
neither do I, really. If he wants to
sit up in his room, doing whatever it is he does up there, who cares?”

She sighed. “There’s probably
some parenting principle at work here that I don’t know about.”

Ten minutes later, Ron finally snapped the tray in place on Alice’s
chair. “Not fair,” the baby pouted
adorably, lower lip jutting out.

“It’s not going to work on me,”
he warned, handing her a cup with a lid on it.
“I know you too well.”

“Gah!” she cried, throwing the cup on the floor.

“Apparently both Potter children
are pissy this evening,” Ron grumbled, eliciting a small snort from
Hermione. He scooped up the cup and put
it on the table out of Alice’s reach.

Grunting with frustration, she reached for it, curls shaking slightly
as she strained. “Want!”

“Are you going to throw it this time?”

Alice put on what Hermione suspected was her most innocent look. “No, Unca Ron.”

He picked the cup up and shook it at her. “You throw it and you’re not getting it back again. Deal?”pan>

“Deal!” she cried sweetly, pitching it halfway across the room as soon
as her tiny fingers wrapped themselves around it.

“Alice!” Ron shouted, fetching the cup again. Hermione smothered her laughter with no small effort.

Eyes sparkling, she held her arms out again. “Want.”

“No,” he snapped, shaking his head.
“I’m not playing this game, Alice.”

“Want,” she repeated, more frustrated.

“No.” Ron crossed his arms over
his chest and glared down his nose at her in an uncanny imitation of Professor
Snape.

“Want!” she wailed, fat tears swimming in her eyes.

Ron was silent, shaking his head as Hermione gave him a questioning
look.

Mere seconds later, the tears were tumbling down her cheeks and Alice
was beginning to cry in earnest.

“Erm ... Ron?”

“No, Hermione,” he said firmly.
“She’s just doing it to get what she wants. Believe me -- I’ve spent more time babysitting this kid than I have all of my other nieces and nephews
put together.”

Alice continued to wail, Hermione’s ears beginning to ring in
protest. “Ronald Weasley,” came a stern
voice from the doorway. “Why is my
child crying?” Françoise moved swiftly
to Alice’s side, making soothing noises.
The child soon quieted -- Hermione swore she shot Ron a victorious look
as Françoise put the cup in her outstretched hands.

“Françoise ...” Ron tried.

Shaking her head, she gave Alice another little pat and
straightened. “Let’s just have
supper. Everyone’s here and the table
is set. Hermione, I forgot to ask, do
you eat meat?”

“When it’s offered, yes,” she said cautiously.

“Oh, good,” she replied. “I
fully intended to have Ron inquire as to your eating habits, but I forgot and I
didn’t want to offend your sensibilities.
We’re having ham. It’s Nicholas’
favorite. You’re not Jewish or Muslim,
are you?”

With a small laugh, Hermione shook her head. Where had this slightly worried, rational woman been hiding under
the exterior of the cold, angry one she’d encountered a few days ago?

“All right, then,” she said definitively. “Let’s sit, then. You
too, Nicholas.”

Blinking, Hermione turned her head and saw the same little boy she
recalled from the cemetery studying his shoelaces. He moved automatically to the table and took what she assumed was
his usual seat, not looking her way once.

Françoise sat down beside her daughter and Ron took the seat at the end
of the table not butted against the wall, leaving the chair beside Nicholas
empty. The boy froze as Hermione took
it, still not looking at her -- she realized instantly that this was Harry’s chair. She
tensed and Françoise gave her a curious look.
“I --” she began, not knowing what to say.

“It’s fine, Hermione,” she replied with a slight tremor in her
voice. “It’s fine,” she repeated more
firmly, focusing on Nicholas sternly.

Relaxing minutely, she took the bowl full of string beans that Ron
pushed at her and began filling her plate with food, tension easing more fully
as forks began to clatter against plates.
She allowed her mind to drift.

“Anything interesting at work today?” Françoise asked Ron
conversationally. And then, to Alice,
“No, dear ... let me cut that for you.”

“Nah, not really,” Ron said, swallowing a mouthful of food. “I went over to the Academy for a half-day
and gave a self-defense lecture. Those
new recruits are awfully scrawny -- I wonder what they’re feeding them at
Hogwarts. You know, someone asked me
something that might interest you, Hermione.”

“What?” she asked, startled out of her half-listening by his off-handed
comment.

He chuckled and she knew she’d been caught out. “One particularly soft looking fellow asked
me what it was like to have Potions classes with the old bat Snape. Apparently he’s transcended into somewhat of
a legend at school.”

“Not surprised,” she replied with a slight snort. “He was rather brilliant at inspiring
terror.”

“This man seems to come up often lately,” Françoise said blandly. “I hadn’t heard his name more than five
times in my entire life before I met you, Hermione. And now he’s mentioned at least once a day. Who is he?”

“Just an old professor,” Hermione said carefully. “But he was a memorable character, you
see. I just find it strange that he
wound up at an institution, is all.”

“I find it strange that you took
it upon yourself to visit the old bastard,” Ron said, chewing on a roll
thoughtfully.

“Ron!” Françoise scolded.
“Language!”

He shrugged. “Sorry ... kids,
don’t say ‘bastard,’ all right?”

Nicholas remained firmly focused on his plate -- Alice grinned at her
uncle. “’Tard!” she crowed, clapping
her hands.

“Oh, good,” Françoise said faintly, putting a handful of string beans
onto Alice’s tray. “Ron, I don’t think
I’m going to allow you around my children any more.”

“Great Merlin, Françoise, who’s going to teach your children to swear
and cheat at Exploding Snap if I’m not around?” he teased. “Especially since you’ve banned at least two
of my brothers from entering your house.”

She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t ban them ...”

“But you did hex them and throw them out ... Fred and George are right
terrified of you, you know.”

“Ron,” she exclaimed. “They
turned my son into a puppy!”

“They changed him back,” he argued.
“And I’m sure he didn’t mind much -- right, Nicholas?”

Nicholas glanced at Ron briefly -- Hermione could not see his
expression -- and then returned his attention to his plate.

Argument forgotten, both Ron and Françoise were giving the boy a
concerned look. Even Alice, sensing the
change in mood, gave her mother a perplexed frown. If he noticed (or cared), Hermione could not tell.

“Nicholas,” she said quietly, pronouncing his name for the first time,
“would you please pass me the rolls? I
can’t reach them.” She wondered for a
moment if he would comply.

As if in slow motion, Nicholas’ hand drifted lazily toward the basket,
fingers taking their time in wrapping around its edges. She watched in curious fascination as he pushed
the basket toward her plate, still not looking at her.

Deliberately, Hermione let her hands close over his as she took
it. “Thank you, Nicholas,” she said
demurely, aware that both Ron and Françoise were watching this bizarre
interchange avidly.

Startled by her touch, the boy finally looked up into her face. The blood drained from his cheeks as he
stared with horror into her confused eyes.

Hermione idly noticed that Françoise actually jumped with surprise as
Nicholas flung himself out of his chair wildly, knocking it over in his haste
and backing into a corner, lips curled into an unconscious snarl and frightened
eyes still locked with her own.

Françoise started toward her son, a single hand outstretched. “Nicholas, what on Earth ...?”

He didn’t even blink, just kept eye contact with Hermione. Reminding her more of some sort of feral
animal than a little boy, he tucked himself further into the wall, still
sneering.

Hesitantly, she reached out her own hand. “Nicholas ...”

Nicholas opened his mouth and began to scream -- long and loud and
wordless.

As the chilling cry shivered its way down her spine, the rational part
of Hermione’s brain that was still functioning noted that this was the first
sound he’d supposedly uttered in nearly two weeks.

-- -- --
-- --